


what wise men fear

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23940448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: There are goings-on far above Wolffe's head that he doesn't have time to care about, since he's not going to be able to change any of it anyway. But Plo gets some news he doesn't like, and then a call from an Admiral shoves him right over the edge.Wolffe begins to understand why Jedi are the way they are.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 59
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

The first sign that something is wrong is the empty seat at breakfast. Wolffe tries not to think too much of it; every once in a while Plo has a meeting or wants to sleep in before they set out for the day, and he isn’t in the habit of neglecting himself so a missed meal here or there isn’t cause for concern. When he does appear, he is quiet. Also not abnormal, but he closes himself off from them, doesn’t respond when they try to engage him, and slowly they realize something is bothering their General and he wishes to be left alone, or as much as can be managed while they’re trekking across a plain. ****

Wolffe walks beside him, glancing over every few minutes, trying to gauge his mood. Plo has been staring at the ground for the last hour, tight lipped and tense. He hasn’t said or done anything in particular that Wolffe can point to and say _you’re being weird,_ but there’s an unsettling aura around him, almost a disdain that he is unaccustomed to seeing. Plo’s general reverence for all things is all but gone. 

“Plo?” he asks. “You need to talk?”

“No,” Plo growls. Wolffe blinks, and Plo sighs. “I’m sorry, Wolffe. Now - isn’t a good time.” He tugs his robes tighter around himself, as though he is cold. Perhaps he is; all the warmth around him seems to have leeched away. But Wolffe can do little about whatever is troubling him, so he sets the matter aside and hopes it will take care of itself. 

And then the comm rings. Plo looks at the caller, refuses the call, and walks on. It rings again. Plo ignores it. 

“Sir?” one of the troopers asks, and Plo visibly stiffens up. Wolffe waves him off. Then his own comm rings.

“Ignore that,” Plo says. 

“Plo -”

“He’s a-” a multilingual string of epithets comes out “-and he isn’t worth our time.” He stalks ahead, and Wolffe watches warily.

“We’ll take a pause,” he decides, and then the emergency band activates. Ahead, Plo freezes in place, hand clenched around his holoprojector. His part of the conversation is inaudible, but the Admiral’s part is broadcast for all of them to hear.

“I can’t help but notice you are not headed towards the city, Master Jedi,” says the Admiral.

“Oh shit,” says Sinker.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” says Boost.

“What does it matter?” says the Admiral. “You can call for reinforcements. - You’ve made your feelings abundantly clear, but the Senate has agreed, for the seventh time, that they are _not_ sentient beings-”

There is a deafening crack, and the earth splits open beneath them with a roar, dirt falling into the new chasm that has opened between them and Plo, who is frozen still, his comm crushed into scrap floating in front of him. When Wolffe looks up from pulling his troopers away - where could possibly be safe if the ground is opening up beneath them - Plo’s shape is almost distorted, hazy, lightning dancing across his skin. The pressure of the air drops abruptly, and what had been a clear day becomes dark and clouded, gale-force winds tearing across the plain, pulling up shrubs and dirt. The sky opens and bolts crash into the ground, sending rock spraying into the air, peppering everything in range with shrapnel. Some of the grass wilts and browns, the life draining away from it, and then catches fire. In the midst of it all, Plo is horribly, horribly still.

This, Wolffe thinks. This is what it means for a Jedi to fall. This is what happens when a Jedi abandons serenity and mindful awareness. This is what fuels the undercurrent of fear in the Senate, and the endless repetitions of _let go of your attachments_. A Jedi without control is a Kaminoan storm, a black hole, a spiteful god. The world bends to his will, and what will not bend will break under his heel.

“Little gods,” Wolffe whispers. This is not something he can fight. He’d thought he was only afraid of the Force wielded by Darksiders. That the Force was a tame thing in the hands of an ally. He knows better now. The difference between Plo and Ventress is that Plo chooses to care; sans that, he could wreak the same destruction. 

Another blast strikes the ground, and they all scatter for what little cover there is. And then Plo turns to them, staggers a few steps, and drops. Beside Wolffe, Catch reloads his rifle with another dart and takes aim. The world settles into its new, ragged form, dust drifting to the ground, the last rumbles fading into distant echoes. Wolffe staggers to his feet and looks at the men. 

“None of us is ever going to mention this to anyone. Never. Do you understand me? None of this ever happened,” he growls. At the round of nods and verbal acknowledgement, he sighs. “Get me a jetpack.”

He hops the chasm, landing unsteadily on the uneven ground and approaches the heap of robes slowly. The sedative is working well and truly; Plo lies still where he’d fallen, taking in slow breaths. He looks normal, but he had in the morning too - and Wolffe realizes he is, for the first time, afraid. He’s felt many things in relation to Plo since they’ve been together - dismissal, irritation, camaraderie, shock, awe, joy, but never fear. Now he doesn’t know what he’s facing, or who. If the person who wakes up will the the same person he went to bed with last night. 

He drops to his knees beside Plo and reaches for his pulse. Strong, steady. He’d almost expected something else. He shivers. “What am I going to do with you?” he mutters, and settles in to wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Plo wakes, and everything hurts. His nerves are raw. The galaxy is pressing in on him, every sound and sensation funneling directly to his tender mind. He lies still, waiting for the pain to fade a little before he tries to do something about it. He has other problems, more pressing ones to deal with - like whether his spectacular loss of control has destroyed anything that can’t be repaired. Already he can tell there is a tension in the Force, as though a hole has been torn into the fabric of the world. 

He shifts, taking in the feel of gravel under his back, the ozone in the air, the slow return of sun as his fit of meteorological impertinence dissipates. The heat feels foreign, sitting heavy over his senses. He reaches through it, looking for the sparks of soul that he knows to be his men, and for one in particular that flares beside him. 

When he opens his eyes, Wolffe is there. His posture is reserved, ready to react. He’s got his feet under him in case he needs to spring away, and he’s watching Plo with the same pensive consideration he uses on a the rare captive they take. He blinks slowly, adjusting to the light. 

“Your eyes,” Wolffe says, and then stops. Plo squints at him. It’s too bright.

“What about them?”

“I thought they’d be - different,” says Wolffe. He backs away, giving Plo the room to sit up. 

“Did I hurt anyone?” Plo asks. He scans their surroundings. The landscape is irrevocably changed; it feels _dead_ , not a speck of green in sight, and the new canyon he’s created is a testament to the destructive force of his rage. There are still fires burning where he’d called lightning, with troopers doing their best to put them out before they can spread. He’s seen battlefields less ravaged. 

“A few scrapes and bruises, and a lot of pride,” says Wolffe. “I’m not lying.” 

“Am I so transparent?” Plo asks.

“I like to think I know you,” says Wolffe. What Plo hears is _I don’t know if I do_. He hangs his head. His dear Commander, ever honest. 

He curls into a tight ball, drawing his knees to his chest. Everything hurts. Everything is an assault on his senses. He’s pulled too much on the Force and let his anger control him. He hasn’t done that in years. He’s put his Commander at risk, and his men, and the war effort. If it were any other time, any other situation, he could take time to regroup, find someone to talk to, debrief and unpack his feelings, but he is needed. They have to continue moving. He can’t slow them down for what is ultimately a crisis of faith. 

Wolffe studies him. “You don’t seem different. I guess the way you Jedi talk about Falling, I expected something else.”

“I’m not Falling,” Plo scoffs. “I’m just -” What? Angry? Grieving? Burned? Or is he just empty, now that all of those have passed, and only the numb resignation to what the war is turning him into remains? “Unwell.” 

He doesn’t have it in him to explain that he hasn’t abandoned his principles, that a single moment of overwhelming anger isn’t a condemnation, that the danger is in allowing it to fester and spread until it rules over him. He doesn’t have the energy to say that he too is a person and that Jedi are people and emotions are as normal for them as for anyone else. Sometimes it feels like the entire galaxy has forgotten and that no matter how loud he shouts, no one is listening. 

He imagines himself with hairline fractures running through his core, ready to burst into shards with just the right provocation, damaged but not the right kind of damaged. There is nothing in him that was made for this life; exploring new worlds, yes, but not conquering them. Not ordering men to their deaths, not surviving while all his friends and family pass on, and not for so long. This is not a responsibility he had accepted so much as been handed, and it is crushing him under its weight. 

He drags himself to his feet and has to swallow against the urge to bring up the water he’d managed to drink earlier. He’ll meditate. Later. Once they’ve stopped for the night and no one is around to see. Until then, he’ll just have to muddle through.

“Can I help?” Wolffe asks quietly, hesitantly, reaching out and stopping halfway. He’s scared. People get scared. It happens. It hurts anyway. 

“No,” says Plo. “You really can’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

Camp that night is subdued, troopers huddling around their fires, low murmurs passing between them before a hasty retreat to their bedrolls. The officers too congregate together, ostensibly to discuss their next move now that it’s clear they’re deviating from the navy’s charted course, but Plo knows better. They’re discussing _him_ , their Fallen-not-Fallen Jedi General, the freak of nature who could terraform the world they stand on, and did. 

He doesn’t want to hear it. Can’t, at the moment; his emotions are volatile enough as it is, and his control tenuous at best. The serenity that comes with meditation has been hard to find. The best he can do is to find external quiet and let his anguish pass. 

There’s no use trying to sneak out of camp; the watch is especially watchful tonight, and Wolffe always seems to know where to find him anyway. He just walks out the front, waves off the half-hearted offer of an escort, and goes walking. It is dark enough by starlight for him to go without his eyewear, so he tucks it in his pocket as he makes circles around their encampment until he finds a spot covered in soft grass with a nice view of the horizon to settle down in. He stretches his senses out around him, taking note of the life present here in all its forms: his men, a cluster in the distance; insects scuttling in the dirt, the calm steady him of the trees’ slow growth. This is what he fights to protect, and what he fights himself to protect. 

He wishes he could speak to Mace, who has always known what to say. He understands the impulse to rage against injustice, and how duty and responsibility restrain him from doing so. He knows intimately the feeling of impotent rage, how it gnaws at his insides; and disappointment, when he wants to believe the best only to be met short time and time again. 

There is rustling approaching, and he sighs. Linear minds can be a blessing, but Wolffe never did know when to leave well enough alone. More rustling as he arrives, and settles himself near Plo. 

“I know you said I couldn’t help, but I thought I’d offer an ear or a shoulder anyway,” Wolffe says gruffly. “I don’t - understand what happened today. But something tells me I made it worse, or at least didn’t make it better.”

“Wolffe,” he says tiredly.

“This thing is two-way, you said,” says Wolffe. “You listen when it’s my shit. I’d listen, if you’d let me.”

Plo shakes his head and pulls his knees to his chest. Just this once he’d like to indulge his childish impulse to demand someone else just _know_ why he’s upset and fix it. It seems unfair that he never can, but he lets go of the bitterness to find the right words to explain. 

“I appeared before the Senate last week,” he says. “To speak in favor of a bill under consideration. It was voted down last night. I’m sure you’ve guessed the topic, given the Admiral’s remarks.” He refuses to look at Wolffe. “I was in a foul mood this morning.”

An understatement, judging by Wolffe’s snort. 

“When he said - I was so _angry_. You know why we’re not trying to take the city. The losses we’d sustain - And I lost control of myself. I wanted him to stop talking. I wanted him to understand how angry I was that he would suggest such a thing. You saw the result.”

“He’d probably understand better if you hadn’t destroyed your comm,” Wolffe offers. 

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Plo chuckles hollowly. “Anger is . . . irrational. Destructive. For anyone, but for Force-sensitives in particular. As much as we say the Force guides us, it answers to us in equal measure. I wanted to show what I felt, and so the Force brought it into being. In a manner rather specific to my abilities, but the concept remains. Children have been known to knock over houses; Lissarkh once broke every glass in our quarters. Our connection to the Force is governed by the unconscious as much as the conscious.”

“So you’re - what, disappointed with yourself? Worried?”

“No. That’s . . . passed. I can’t guarantee it will never happen again, but I don’t think it’s an immediate concern.” 

“But you’re still out here,” Wolffe says. “Instead of in camp, sleeping.” 

Plo bows his head, his eyes closed. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to talk. Most especially, he doesn’t want to talk with Wolffe. Not about this. “I can’t speak with my Commander right now. Go back and let me have my quiet. I promise I won’t do anything foolish,” he says, waiting to hear the sound of retreating footsteps, which never come. The silence stretches out instead. 

“Your Commander isn’t here right now,” Wolffe says finally, and Plo chokes on a sob, trying not to let the clicking escape. Wolffe sighs, shuffles closer, and pulls Plo into his chest, one arm around his shoulders, the other teasing Plo’s hands open so his claws don’t break his own skin. He rubs at the indents in Plo’s palm with a thumb, and finally Plo gives in and cries. He turns into Wolffe’s neck, arms wrapping around Wolffe’s ribs, claws clacking on plasteel.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Plo forces out between clicks. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Wolffe says.

“I will. I know I will,” Plo says. “Please don’t make me.”

“Tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it,” Wolffe insists. 

“You _can’t_! You can’t change how you feel!” Plo tries to pull away, but Wolffe’s grip is firm. He’s pinned, and he isn’t capable of doing what he’d have to in order to escape. All he can do is minimize the damage.

“Tell me what you mean,” Wolffe says, stroking down Plo’s spine. 

“You believed - You thought -” Plo shakes his head. “I was angry, and you said you thought I Fell. You thought I was going to be like Ventress, or Dooku. As if showing my feelings, having feelings at all meant I was . . . that.” Now that he’s started, the words keep pouring out. “Do you really think I feel nothing? That I’m humoring you, or that I’m _lying_ about my affection? Of course I have feelings, Wolffe. I’m a person. I just thought - of all people, you’d understand.”

But he doesn’t. He believes what the rest of the galaxy does. That cuts deep. 

“Ah, shit, Plo,” Wolffe says. “I didn’t mean -”

Plo shakes his head. “I know that’s not what you meant,” he mumbles. “Most people don’t. But it comes out in the end. It always does. Jedi don’t have feelings. Jedi aren’t allowed to.”

They sit for a while longer until Plo cries himself out. Wolffe sighs.

“You really don’t pull your punches,” he says. 

“I’m sorry, Wolffe,” says Plo. “I shouldn’t have told you. It’s not your fault.”

Wolffe shakes his head. “I’m glad you did. I needed to hear it.”

Eventually, Plo lets Wolffe pull him to his feet and brush the dirt from his robes. They walk slowly back to the camp in silence. Plo ducks into his tent, and for the first time in a long while, Wolffe hesitates at the entrance. 

“Will I -” he starts, and then shakes his head. 

“You can say it,” Plo says. “You won’t hurt me.” He refuses to meet Wolffe’s gaze, fixing his eyes on the ground instead.

“I already have,” says Wolffe. “Will I hurt you more if I stay?”

“I do love you, Wolffe,” says Plo. 

“I know. You wouldn’t hurt if you didn’t,” says Wolffe. Plo offers a pained half smile and a hand, and they go to bed. Plo drifts off first, exhausted from the day, becoming limp in Wolffe’s arms, his neck arched against the pressure of Wolffe’s hand. 

“You’re wrong,” Wolffe whispers into the night air. “I felt you would be a disaster for the vode. I felt you’d never be one of us. That you’d mean nothing to me.” He presses a kiss to Plo’s forehead. “I’ll find a way. Just give me a little more time.”


End file.
